


Revelations

by Citrine (orphan_account)



Series: Holmes and houses [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Diapers, John & Sherlock falling in love, John isn't very good at this BDSM lark, M/M, Mention of incestous Sherlock/Mycroft, Slightly squicky semi-public sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Citrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has secrets that he wants to share with John, but he doesn't know how John will react, although he knows exactly how he wants him to react:</p><p>John traced a circle on the table top and then another interlinked with the first. “What the hell am I supposed to say to you?”</p><p>Sherlock could think of several responses, let’s shag, being the one that sprung immediately to mind.  Only John didn’t look as if he was in the mood for that kind of remark, not even if Sherlock blunted it into a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote about a third of this and then abandoned it until I read a comment on one of my other stories where someone asked for Sherlock in a diaper. (Nappy to those of us on this side of the pond). It's thanks to her that this is finished. 
> 
> The warnings apply to all chapters.
> 
> Not beta read so apologies for any glaringly obvious errors I didn't spot.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

It was a beautiful summer evening, so bathed in an amber sunset that even Sherlock, who was a city boy at heart, was captivated by the shimmer of light across the bay.  He sipped his tea and watched the waves lap at the white sand.  Sherlock sighed softly. He was tantalising himself, teasing his full bladder with the slow roll of the water on the shore. The tea was pure bravado. It wasn’t as if he was even particularly thirsty. John had made it for him in all innocence because John had absolutely no idea that he was deliberately ignoring the call of nature.

People were notoriously easy to fool. Sherlock had made a point of visiting the loo when they arrived at the farmhouse and again just after dinner. Therefore, John assumed that he had pissed. Oddly enough the deception made Sherlock feel a little guilty. He didn’t usually have a conscience about deceiving people, but John was different. John was special.  Still, it was necessary, unavoidable really. However much he might want John to know, to understand and perhaps even to participate, Sherlock knew that John’s reaction might well be vastly different to that of the fantasy John who haunted his imagination.

The deception avoided a situation that could be awkward at best and potentially disastrous at worse if John flew off the handle or simply laughed in his face. Either way they would never be able to pretend that it hadn’t happened. That was why Sherlock was wearing a pad, slim and discreet, a diaper as the Americans called them, a nappy in the parlance of the nursery. It wasn’t something that he had ever done before and it felt strange; a bit naughty, a bit silly and rather more erotic than he had ever expected it to be.  The important thing was that it should conceal any accidental leakage. Over the years he had become very good at hiding his desperation, but wet trousers would definitely be something of a giveaway. 

There were footsteps on the patio behind him. John joined him on the terrace. They stood together in companionable silence gazing at the green and gold vista spread out before them.

“It’s a lovely evening,” said John. “Do you fancy a walk before we turn in for the night?”

“Why not?  We can take a stroll along the beach if you like.”

“Sounds good to me.” John picked Sherlock’s mug up off the balustrade. “Here, you can finish your tea first.”

*

“This is a nice place,” said John. “How long did you say that your family have owned the farmhouse?”

“Since the 1920’s, the farmer went broke and great-grandfather bought him out. We’ve used the place as a holiday home over the years. I’m glad you like it.” Sherlock was surprised to realise that he meant it. He really did want John to enjoy this weekend.

“What’s not to like?” John sat down on an outcrop of rock. “Sea, sand, even sun while it lasts, it’ll probably be pissing down tomorrow.” 

His body was trying to convince him that he had to go now, that he couldn’t wait. Sherlock shifted position slightly. Eventual defeat was inevitable, but he had no intention of surrendering to the tight pulse of need in his abdomen. Not here, not now, not with John beside him, although that might have been prefect in its own way, if things were different, if they were lovers.

They watched the burning sun melt into the horizon. John sat back a little until his shoulder rested lightly against Sherlock’s. It was a casual, unconscious gesture. Sherlock looked away so that John wouldn’t notice his quick half-smile. The beach was deserted, but if anyone had seen them there watching the sunset together John would never have convinced them that they weren’t a couple.  Of course if they were lovers Sherlock would have put his arm around John’s waist by now and pulled him back against his chest. He would kiss the nape of his neck and -.

“Shall we go?” John asked.

Go. Oh, yes, he wanted to go. An image flashed into his mind; his trousers were open, the nappy was pulled down and he was pissing onto the virgin sand.

“Well shall we?” John said with an edge of impatience in his voice.

“Yes, let’s.”

Another fantasy was that of taking John’s hand as they walked back along the water’s edge, but Sherlock could also imagine the reaction that would provoke.  They stopped at the top of the hill to look back at the last slice of sun across the water. Sherlock’s bladder quivered hopefully and again he imagined  himself pissing on the beach.

*

John suggested that they finish of the bottle of wine they had started at dinner as a nightcap. When Sherlock refused he flicked the switch on the kettle instead.

The long case clock in the hall chimed the quarter hour as they settled in the lounge.  John stretched out on one of the old comfy sofas and Sherlock on the other. If they had been lovers…but they were not.

After a lot of channel flicking John found a documentary on the rain forest that he seemed to find reasonably interesting. Sherlock couldn’t have cared less, but he drank just enough of his tea to avoid suspicion and sat back to surreptitiously watch John watching TV.

And to relish the sensation of needing to go, of needing to go so very much. It was almost eleven o’clock and he hadn’t been since mid-afternoon.  Sherlock tensed his thighs and crossed his legs. He wished that he could tell John how much his bladder ached and how stiff it was making him. He wished that he could have a wank, right there on the sofa, without giving John apoplexy.

The documentary finished and was replaced by s film involving a death ray, zombies and a girl with very large breasts who screamed a lot.

“Why the hell is that idiot doing that?” John pointed at the TV where a terrified man was locking himself into a freezer.

“Because he’s an idiot and frightened, and because most people let fear dominate their thinking, if they ever think at all.” Sherlock tried to find a more comfortable position, one that would take some of the pressure off his cock and bladder.

John chuckled. “Or greed,” he said.  On the TV screen another character had just been trapped in a bank vault by a gang of zombies with his hands full of useless gemstones. “Greed’s a big motivator, look at some of the cases we get.”

“Desire,” said Sherlock, earning himself a surprised look from John. “Needs, urges, the lure of the forbidden.”

“Sounds like fun.” It was a joke, but John looked pensive. “It’s not all bad stuff though, there are good things that drive people as well, honour, duty, patriotism. Love.”

 “And how many crimes have been committed in the name of love?”

“Cynic.”

The man in the freezer froze to death and the midnight hour chimed in the hallway. All Sherlock could think about was pissing.

Most people would have been dancing around the room by now and it was getting more and more difficult not to fidget. Would this bloody film never end? Sherlock wriggled on the sofa and pressed his tightly crossed legs together. His hand curled into a fist on his thigh. The pressure was becoming unbearable and he longed to touch himself.  His cock was rock hard inside the nappy.

The nappy.

He could piss in the nappy and John would never know. That was what it was designed for, wasn’t it?  Sherlock hesitated. He was so painfully full that the nappy might not be able to absorb it all. Perhaps he could release just enough piss into the soft padding to take the desperate edge off his need.

No. That would make it worse not better, even if he somehow managed to stop the flow. He could always get up and go the loo, but that was boring, dull and normal, a waste of all his efforts.  There was a battered litter bin under the coffee table. His cock jerked and he imagined pissing into it, a long gushing stream of relief hammering into the metal. He couldn’t, not with John just a few feet away and totally oblivious to his plight. Sherlock moaned.

 “Are you okay?” John asked.

“I’m fine. I – Oh, fuck, I can’t wait!”

Sherlock doubled over for an instant before he bolted from the room.

“Sherlock!”

He ignored John’s cry of alarm.  Any moment now he was going to lose control entirely. Sherlock grabbed himself between the legs as he staggered down the hallway. Oh, god, not now, not yet.  He yanked at the bolt on the kitchen door, but it was too late. Sherlock was already pissing when he stumbled out into the back garden.  He bent over, holding onto the edge of the picnic table for support.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? What the hell’s the matter with you?”  John sounded really worried, almost frightened.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Sherlock knew that he was going to have to tell him the truth.  “It’s all right, I’m not ill. I’ve…I’ve pissed myself.”

“You’ve done what?” John was right beside him.  

“I’ve had an accident.”  He didn’t dare look John in the face. 

John looked down instinctively and then up at Sherlock with a puzzled expression on his face. “You’re not even damp.”

The picnic table was suddenly fascinating. “I’m wearing a nappy.”

“What? God, this is fucking surreal.”   John turned away.  He started to walk towards the house. Then he changed direction and stopped on the opposite side of the picnic table.

Sherlock could see his profile in the shifting shadows cast by the spill of light from the kitchen. John’s jaw was very tight and the tension particularly vibrated off him.  He wasn’t shouting or sneering though and Sherlock, who had braced himself for a tide of abuse, was grateful for that. 

“Why have you got a nappy on, Sherlock?”  John had learnt that carefully moderated tone somewhere, perhaps dealing with battle causalities or with civilian patients who were convinced that there were Martians living in their cornflakes.

Sherlock struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t sound either flippant or sarcastic. “I thought that it would hide the evidence from you if I started to leak, but I waited too long and…I don’t normally wear one.”

“Oh, that’s all right then. What is this anyway, some half-assed experiment gone wrong?”

If Sherlock said yes John would pretend to believe him. “Not exactly.”

“Oh, fuck.”

John sounded upset, almost tearful and that wasn’t something that Sherlock hadn’t expected at all. He took a step towards him.

“John, I – “

“Not now. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” John turned his head, but his smile was infinitely sad. “God, you’re an idiot. “

The sorrow in John’s voice made it impossible for Sherlock to take offence. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

“Now there’s a first, an apology from Sherlock Holmes. I’ll have to put that on the wall and frame it.” John sighed. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, okay?”

 “Okay.”

He didn’t wish John good-night or try to stop him going back into the farmhouse. Sherlock was very tired. The soaked nappy felt cold, uncomfortable and faintly ridiculous.  Even the urge to masturbate had deserted him. He wanted a bath. Then he wanted to crawl into bed beside John and fall asleep with his head on his shoulder.

He might as well wish for the moon.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I never did find out what happened to Charlene,” said John. He finished buttering his toast and reached for the jam. “Do you think that the zombies ate her?”

“The hero rescued her and they lived happily ever after, those films are tediously predictable.”

“I still wouldn’t have minded seeing the end.”

They had been pussy-footing around one another like this ever since Sherlock had come downstairs at the ungodly hour of six o’clock in the morning, only to find that John was already awake and dressed.  Sherlock watched John munch on his toast. He had never seen the attraction of food so early in the day.

John pushed his plate away and reached for his tea. “How are you this morning, physically I mean, any back ache, stomach pains, fever, chills or nausea?”

“No.”

“Then you’re lucky, a raging kidney infection’s no fun.”

“I know. I had one a few years ago. It’s the only time it’s ever happened to me, but I agree that it isn’t particularly enjoyable.”  At least not in the early stages and Sherlock didn’t think that John was quite ready to hear about the compensations of convalescence.

“I’m sorry I persuaded you to give up smoking, if I hadn’t I could have cadged a cigarette off you,” said John.

“You hate smoking. You tired it twice when you were fourteen and you were sick both times.”

“And I told you about Tracy Jenkins’ sixteenth birthday party.” John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How come I tell you all my secrets, even the really embarrassing ones, when you never tell me anything?”

 “John, as one of my cockney clients once told me I’ve got more front than Southend, but there are some things that even I find it difficult to work into an introduction. Hi, I’m Sherlock Holmes, let’s share a flat. I play the violin and get off on holding my piss until I’m literally wetting myself. You would have run a mile.”

“Probably.”  John traced a circle on the table top and then another interlinked with the first. “What the hell am I supposed to say to you?”

Sherlock could think of several responses, let’s shag, being the one that sprung immediately to mind.  Only John didn’t look as if he was in the mood for that kind of remark, not even if Sherlock blunted it into a joke.

“You could tell me what’s wrong,” suggested Sherlock.

“If you want to know what’s wrong just take a look in the mirror. Go on. Just take a good look at yourself!” John’s chair scraped across the tiles. Two paces brought him up against the breakfast bar and he swung around on his axis. “You’re bloody gorgeous. And you’re wrecking your urinary system playing pathetic games just so that you can get off.  You shouldn’t be doing that. You should have a posh girlfriend, a real trophy blonde, hanging off your arm and onto your every word.  Or if girls really aren’t your thing you should get a boyfriend.  One who thinks that you’re as incredible, amazing and fantastic as you really are. One who would lay down and fucking die for you.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. All or nothing now and only one last secret to share.  “The job’s yours if you want it.”

John’s stunned expression was priceless. “I didn’t mean me. I can’t…I’m not gay.” He bit his lip. “If I could be the one…it’d be a privilege, more than a privilege.”

Sherlock saw a tear fall from John’s right eye and then another pooled on the rim.

“Sorry.” John dashed his hand across his face.

“Sorry for what? For getting emotional or for not wanting to be my boyfriend?” Sherlock went to John.  His index finger traced over the lines at the corner of John’s eye and the tear slipped onto his fingertip.

“Don’t,” whispered John.

Sherlock curled his hand away and rested it on John’s shoulder. “When I’m playing my pathetic games – no, don’t apologise – I become a battleground with my iron resolve pitted against my body’s inextricable demands.  It tears me apart every time and in the end I am always, inevitably defeated.”

“So why do it?”

“I’m perverse enough to enjoy it, but you’re not enjoying this, are you?”  Sherlock tugged John’s shoulder gently and John took an unsteady step towards him. Their bodies brushed against one another from thigh to chest. “Take it from me, you can’t fight yourself and win.”

“I’m not.  I’ve always been attracted to women, never to men.” John touched Sherlock’s cheek. “I can’t love you.” He sounded as if his heart were breaking.

“Yes, you can. You already do.”

“Not in the way that you want me to.”

“In every way.” Sherlock drew him closer. “Remember how jealous you were of Irene?”

“I wasn’t jealous.” John gripped Sherlock’s upper arm tightly. “I just didn’t want her to hurt you and I don’t mean all that messing about with whips and chains that she does.”  His free hand brushed over Sherlock’s chest, over his heart. “I mean here inside, where it really matters.”

Sherlock lifted John’s hand to his lips and kissed it. John stared at him, wide-eyed and obliviously torn between terror and acceptance. “You wouldn’t have let me do that once, perhaps not even yesterday. It would have thrown you into some absurdly complicated crisis about your sexual identity.”

“I’m not gay,” whispered John.

“Be bisexual then, if that’s much more palatable to you.”

John smiled. “You’ve got an answer for everything.” He stared at the top button on Sherlock’s shirt. “Is this the part where you kiss me?”

“I was rather hoping that I could entice you to kiss me. I’m not very au fait with the procedure.”

“It’s bloody ridiculous someone like you being a virgin.” John slid his hands down Sherlock’s arms and interlocked his fingers with his. “God, I feel like a nervous schoolboy myself, Tracy Jenkins had nothing on this. Can we just do something normal for a minute?  Have a cup of tea or something?”

“I’ll have coffee.”

“And I suppose that I’m making it?” John touched his lips very lightly to Sherlock’s. “Coffee it is then.”

*

They settled in the conservatory. High above the waves that howled and splintered on the shore. The morning had turned savage and the rain drummed like an insane heartbeat on the glass roof.

Sherlock watched it overflow the gutters and stream down the windows. “This downpour would be my undoing if I was desperate. I once pissed myself in the middle of Hyde Park during a thunderstorm. It was exhilarating and far too wet for anyone to notice.”

“You weren’t wearing a…er…you know…” John gestured in the direction of Sherlock’s midriff.

“A nappy? No, yesterday was the first time I’ve ever used one.”  Sherlock stretched his arm out along the back of the wicker sofa, so that the tips of his fingers just rested on John’s shoulder. “It was an interesting experiment, but not one that I would want to indulge in too regularly. I rather like wetting my clothes.”

John swallowed heavily. “Anything else I need to know?”

There was just one more thing and Sherlock was tempted to come right out with it in his usual blunt fashion, but perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea.

“Technically,” Sherlock began, “you were right when you said that I was a virgin. I’ve never had intercourse with a woman or anal sex with a man either before you ask, but virginity implies a certain innocence which isn’t really appropriate.” He studied John intently, gauging his every tiny reaction. “I have had sexual experiences with another person.”

“You said that you didn’t even know how to kiss.”

Sherlock was surprised by the amount of resentment and disappointment in John’s voice.  He was going to have to proceed very carefully. “My experiences haven’t really involved much kissing.”

“What have they involved then? Sexual experiences with another person, that’s Sherlock-speak for what exactly?” John frowned. “Another living person?”

“I haven’t been bonking the bodies in the morgue at Barts if that’s what you mean.”

“Thank Christ for that. I may be more liberal than I thought, but there are some things that I just couldn’t get my head around.” John sat forward with his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “Person, gender unspecified, but I’d guess that we’re talking about a man, right?”

“Right.”  Sherlock decided that it was better to let John unravel this at his own pace.

“Youthful indiscretions? Someone you were at university with? Oh, please, not Sebastian prat-face?”

“I’d rather shag the corpses.”

John grinned. “Yeah, me too.” He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. “Did you just pay someone, hire a rent boy or something, purely in the interests of scientific experimentation of course?”

Sherlock tried not to laugh. “No, although I have on occasion accused him of prostituting himself in the service of his country.”

This was fascinating. Sherlock saw a spark of an idea form in John’s mind and from his expression he was trying to throw cold water on it before it could burst into flame. He was almost sure that John had just rejected the correct answer, but he waited patiently until John gave a heavy sigh.

 “All right, I give up,” said John. “Just put me out of my misery.”

“Mycroft.”

“Fucking Jesus!”  John looked pole-axed “Mycroft?” You’re having sex with Mycroft?”

“Not for some months now, but yes on a semi-regular basis for…well, for a long time.”

“How long? Don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know.”  John hauled himself up off the sofa “So where the bleeding hell do I fit into all of this?” he demanded bitterly.

Sherlock couldn’t believe his luck. John wasn’t disgusted, no more than he had been by the wetting and the nappy. He wasn’t telling him that he was a weirdo. John was gutted. He was as jealous of Mycroft as he had been of Irene.

Sherlock leapt up and grabbed John’s face in his hands. “So you do love me!” He kissed John before he could protest. “You wouldn’t be so emotional if you didn’t, but don’t you see how perfect this all is?”

“Perfect?” John clutched Sherlock’s forearms. “It’s a mess!”

“It isn’t a mess. It’s all fine, wonderful, perfect!”

“Sometimes I think that you’re a raving lunatic.” John pulled him back down onto the sofa. “And I know that I’m one because if I wasn’t I’d just walk out of here like any normal, sane person.”

“Normality and sanity are overrated.”

“How would you know? You’ve never tried either of them.”  John slumped back on the sofa. His eyes were bleak. “Explain, Sherlock, and make it good. Give me a reason to stay.”

Sherlock knew that he had to get this right. John would not give him a second chance. His only option seemed to be to tell the absolute truth, even if he made a damn fool of himself in the process.

“The flat always seems empty when you go out on a date. I try to pretend that I’m too busy to notice your absence, but I do. I always do. Why do you think that I’m always so sulky and bad tempered before you leave to meet your latest conquest? Sometimes you don’t come home until the next day and I know that you’re screwing her. I stay awake all night. I don’t sleep until you eventually come back to me. All smug and reeking of sex and her cheap perfume.” Sherlock hadn’t known how much that hurt him until now.

John took his hand. “I’m always glad to come home. Even when I’m bouncing around like Tigger because I’ve had such a great time I know that you’ll be there waiting for me. I get out of the taxi and I’m happy, so happy. I tell myself it’s because she’s a great girl, even if I’ve only known her five minutes, or that it’s because I’ve just got laid, but it isn’t. It’s you.”  John kissed Sherlock’s knuckles and flicked his tongue over a long graze. “You make me feel like my head’s coming apart, like I don’t even know who I am any more. I come away with you for a weekend and I discover that you’re into pissing games and incest. And in the middle of all that I realise that I’m in love with you, that I’ve probably been in love with you since that first day at Barts.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock because he didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re welcome.” John smiled tenderly. “You’re right about one thing though, you’re a lousy kisser.”

“Mycroft and I don’t usually kiss. We aren’t so much lovers as brothers who just so happen to have a sexual relationship. He’s always been an important part of my life and I can’t promise you that I won’t ever have sex with him again, but if anything does happen I do promise that I’ll tell you about it. It’s a rare event in any case, most of the time I’m not even speaking to him, but whatever happens he won’t impede on us.”

“Just be honest with me.”  John leant across and kissed Sherlock. “There, that’s how it’s done.” He brushed the back of his fingers over Sherlock’s cheekbones. “God, I could fuck these.” John sat back with a sheepish look on his face. “One more question, do you and Mycroft…I suppose he knows what turns you on?”

“Yes, we play pissing games. Mycroft can be quite strict.”

“Strict?” There was a spark of something in John’s eyes that wasn’t exactly shock.

“He won’t let me piss without his permission. Sometimes he makes me wait until it feels as if my bladder’s about to burst. Do you remember how Irene said that she would make me beg for mercy twice? Well, Mycroft always tells me that the third time’s the charm.”

“Okay, so I’m gay. And kinky. Definitely kinky.”  John had gone red with arousal and embarrassment. “Mycroft should know better. Those kinds of games can be dangerous. If you’re going to play around it should be under medical supervision.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose and he grinned at poor flustered John. “I think that I would need rather strict medical supervision. Don’t you agree, doctor?”

John gulped and nodded

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The sun was trying to gatecrash the party, but the turgid cloud clung stubbornly to the horizon. Waves as grey as the sky crashed against the iron supports of the pier.  

John looked up from the sea into the sky where a flock of black-headed gulls screeched towards the scimitar curve of the beach. “The weather might clear up later if we’re lucky.”

“Possibly,” agreed Sherlock. Metrology wasn’t his strongest subject.

He leant a little more heavily on the railing and shifted discreetly from one foot to another.  John had made him piss before they left the house. He had even stood in the toilet doorway, watching to ensure that Sherlock went and the bulge in John’s jeans had been very gratifying. Sherlock would have settled for a quick tumble there and then, but John was not about to be seduced. He evaded Sherlock’s embrace, although his rapid breathing told him how close John was to succumbing to his charms.

“Now go and put a nappy on,” John had said, his sternness belied by the blush that coloured his face to the roots of his hair. “We’re going down to the coast.”

When they stopped at a garage to fill up the hired car John had also bought diet coke and bottled water. Once they arrived he had insisted that they go to the nearest Starbuck’s for a large coffee. Sherlock shifted again. It hadn’t really been that long, not for him, but given the amount of liquid John had plied him with it wasn’t surprising that he was getting desperate.

“We’ll think about lunch soon,” said John. He looked at his watch and then over his shoulder to check that there was no one in earshot. “But you need to have a piss first.”

A muscle spasmed in Sherlock’s abdomen. “Do I?”

“Definitely. It’s been nearly three hours and you’ve had a lot to drink.” John looked at him pointedly. “Well, get on with it then.”  John sidled up to him, so close that Sherlock could feel his breath on his neck. “What else do you think the nappy is for? Go on, I dare you.”

Sherlock gave him a withering look. Dare indeed, as if he had ever been inhibited by the social rules and conventions that bound lesser mortals. He straightened his back and rested his hands lightly on the rail. Sherlock sighed in anticipation of the flow.

Nothing happened.

Sherlock tried to force his muscles to relax, which he knew was a contradiction in terms, but he couldn’t even push a tiny dribble out. This was stupid. He was dying to go and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t pissed in public before. Always in dark and deserted places admittedly, never on an almost sunlit pier with other people milling about, but surely the principle was the same, wasn’t it?

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. Sherlock made one more gargantuan effort. Then he slumped slightly. “I can’t go.”

 “Give it five minutes and then try again,” whispered John.  “It’s only nerves making you tense up.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Liar. Have a look at the waves and see if that helps.” John punched a few buttons on his phone. “Or try this.”

This was a You Tube video of a cascading waterfall. A tremor of pure urgency made Sherlock think for an instant that it was going to work.  He even thought that he felt a little trickle escape, but then nothing despite the vast sheet of rolling ocean all around him and the roaring flood on John’s phone.

“Any luck?” asked John.

“Not much.”  Sherlock was annoyed with himself. “I don’t think I can go, not like this.”

“You need to go, Sherlock.”

“I know that, you fool!”

John looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry. This just isn’t working, is it? I don’t think that I’m very good at this strict lark.”

His hangdog expression made Sherlock smile, even though he was as frustrated as hell. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It seems that I’m not quite as uninhibited as I thought myself to be.”

They looked at one another. John gaze was riveted to Sherlock’s face and then he let out a long breath. “Look at you though, all desperate and needy and gorgeous, you’re turning me on like mad, even if I’m not doing much for you.”

“You’ve no idea what you do to me.”  Sherlock linked his arm through John’s. “I think about you when I ought to be focusing on other matters and when I’m like this, all desperate and needy as you put it, I find it impossible to stop thinking about you.”

“You mean that you have sexual fantasies about me?” John’s eyes had gone very wide.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I just…thought that you’d…em…pick someone younger, taller, better looking…I’m no great catch, am I?”

“Well, I don’t intend to throw you back in the sea.”  Sherlock winced. He needed to piss so badly, but he still couldn’t go.  “Don’t underestimate yourself, John. You’re a very attractive man.”

“And who else would put up with you?” said John self-depreciatingly. “What do you think about? Not that you have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I think about you and Tracy Jenkins.” Sherlock’s voice dropped an octave. “Only you’re with me, not her, and you’re not fifteen, you’re just as you are now.  The edge of the wardrobe’s digging into my spine and I’m so hard it hurts.  I pull your belt open and push your trousers down. Your cock springs free, but it’s all too much for you. I’m too much for you and you lose control…clinging onto me… and when I look down my stomach and  thighs are covered in your come.”

“Covered…” John muttered weakly. “I’m not bloody Red Rum.”

“I should hope not, Red Rum was a gelding. Anyway it’s my fantasy so if I want to be covered in your come then I will be or perhaps it isn’t come at all. Perhaps you were desperate and too shy to tell me. Perhaps you’re all adorably embarrassed because you can’t stop your piss gushing out all over me.” Sherlock went quiet. “Oh.” 

“Are you…”

“Yes.”  A long shiver went through him. “Oh god, that feels good.”

It felt even better when John put his arms around his waist and pressed against his side. John was wonderfully, gloriously excited.

“Oh Christ,” John said under his breath. “If we don’t find a hotel room or something quickly I’m going to fulfil your fantasy right here in the middle of the pier.” 

Sherlock forgot that he didn’t know how to kiss. He grabbed John’s face in his hands and kissed him passionately. To his delight John kissed back, just as eagerly and far more expertly.  There was a trick that John did with his tongue, a ripple of wet sensation, that made Sherlock yearn  for him to suck his cock.

John pushed feebly at his shoulder.  “Stop. We have to find somewhere more private.”

Semi-private at least and convenient. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand. “Gents.”

“No! No way, I’m not having sex in a public toilet.”

*

End cubicle. John kicked the door shut and locked it. Sherlock slammed into the white tiled wall and John fell into him. John’s hands clutched at his hair and pulled hard enough to hurt a sharp spike of pain that Sherlock barely had time to register before John pinned his hands to the wall and fastened his lips onto his neck. He gasped and writhed, trapped between the cold tiles and John’s warm body.

John moaned. “Oh, fuck, fuck…” He rutted shamelessly against Sherlock’s thigh.

“Quiet.” Sherlock gasped.

John claimed his mouth in a deep kiss, entwining their tongues and mingling their breath. They undulated against one another. Sherlock grasped John’s buttocks to pull him even closer, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted bare skin, bare flesh.  John must have had the same thought because he stumbled back a pace and yanked at Sherlock’s belt.

“Get these off,” hissed John.

The zip took a second. Then John tugged at Sherlock’s trousers, clumsy in his excitement. They slid down to mid thigh. John froze. His hands trembled on Sherlock’s hips.

“Oh, god, look at you.” John rubbed the flat of his hand over the white padding that covered Sherlock’s stomach. “God, this is insane.”  He stared at Sherlock with lust glazed eyes. “You’re wearing a bloody nappy and I’m so turned on I can barely stand. What the fuck have you done to me?”

“Nothing yet.” Sherlock knew that he was grinning like a lunatic. He leant in and kissed John, reaching for the fastenings on his jeans at the same time. His hand curled around his prize and John shuddered.

“God, more.” John whimpered into his neck. His tongue swept over the arc of Sherlock’s collar bone and dipped into the hollow at the base of his throat. “Fuck.”

John’s fist closed over the padding that covered the long, thick column of Sherlock’s cock. He squeezed it through the nappy and they both moaned. John’s fingers scrambled for the fastenings and then he ripped them open. Sherlock smelt his own piss and moaned again. He grabbed the back of John’s head with his free hand, raking his fingers through his short hair. John had his cock now; fast, furious and without any finesse at all.

Sherlock lowered his head and bit into John’s plaid shirt to stifle the noises he was making.  He loved the feel of John’s cock quivering and jumping in his hand. John groaned and Sherlock bit down on his shoulder. They were both trying so hard not to cry out. 

John’s hand moved ever more rapidly. They had to finish this. Now. Quickly. Before someone came in or they both died of overexcitement. Sherlock trembled. He was so close now.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered, although John’s grip was as firm as ever. “I’ll die if you stop.”

“Not stop – Oh, god, fuck!”  John’s entire body jerked. Hot semen sprayed across Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock tried to keep up the rhythm. He couldn’t and his fingers juddered to a halt. For a split second he hung suspended on the very edge of orgasm. Then he came in long, shuddering convulsions of ecstasy. 

They slumped against the wall, holding onto one another for support and a moment later they were giggling helplessly.

John pulled Sherlock’s head down for a kiss. “I love you.”

Sherlock blushed. “And you, John, very much indeed.”

“Well, that’s all right then.” John tried to sound flippant, but the look in his eyes belied the lightness of his words. “We ought to get tidied up and out of here.”

“Yes, all right.” Sherlock shifted again the wall. “I think that I could do with going again first though.”

“Be my guest.” John caught Sherlock’s arm when he took a half-step towards the toilet. “In the nappy.” He lifted Sherlock’s cock gently and pointed at the padding halfway down his thighs. “Go on, I want to watch.”

Sherlock had no trouble pissing now. The stream flowed easily, through John’s fingers and down into the nappy.

“God, that’s hot.” John wriggled and pressed himself into Sherlock’s hip. “You’ve made me want to go though. Now I come to think of it I haven’t been since we left home.”

“Come here then.” Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s waist and kissed his temple. “I’ll hold it for you.”

Sherlock pointed John’s cock at the already very wet nappy sagging between his legs. He felt John tense up and he kissed his earlobe. “Go on, I dare you.”

“Sod off.” John chuckled. He tried again and this time he was able to start pissing.

His sigh of relief was music to Sherlock’s ears. He watched avidly, totally transfixed by the sight of John going. 

So avidly that he didn’t hear the heavy footsteps outside the cubicle until it was too late.

*

They stood in front of Mycroft’s desk, like two naughty schoolboys in the headmaster’s office.

Mycroft was on the telephone. “I agree, a most regrettable incident…No, I assure you it won’t happen again. Yes, we must play golf. Give my regards to Pamela.”  He put the phone down. “Well, I’ve smoothed it over for you, the Director of Public Prosecutions will ensure that all charges are dropped.”

“Good,” said John. “Thanks.” He had spent the last twenty-four hours wishing that a large hole in the ground would just swallow him up.

Sherlock grabbed his coat. “We’re going home.”

Mycroft tutted. “There’s no need to be so ungracious, Sherlock. I bailed you out, didn’t I?”

“After we’d spent the night in the police cells!”

“Look on it as a public service, you provided some much needed amusement for the hard working members of the West Sussex constabulary.” Mycroft smiled at the indignant look on Sherlock’s face. “It was hardly dignified, was it? Being arrested in a public convenience with your trousers down around your ankles and a wet nappy between your legs.” Mycroft turned to John and continued in a conversational tone. “Do you know, I never really considered putting him in nappies. Mind you, it took poor nanny quite long enough to get him out of them and I’m not entirely convinced that he’s fully toilet trained yet.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” said Sherlock from between gritted teeth.

“It wasn’t exactly my…” John’s voice trailed off. It felt disloyal to say any more.

 “No, perhaps not,” said Mycroft. “One expects it of Sherlock, but I was rather surprised by you behaving in such an odd fashion.”

“Odd?” echoed John. “At least I’m not having sex with my brother.”

“You haven’t got a brother,” said Mycroft.

“All right, my sister then.”

“Your sister’s a lesbian,” said Sherlock.

John glared at both of them. “That’s not the bloody point.”

“Perhaps, gentlemen, and I use the word advisedly, we could discuss this at some other time.” Mycroft stood up. “I’m afraid that I have an appointment at the palace.”

“Name dropper,” growled Sherlock. “He always was a show-off.”

“Not at all, it’s all going to be rather tedious and do stop sulking, Sherlock.” Mycroft looked at John. “You must dine with me one evening, after all you’re almost family now. I suppose you’ll have to bring Sherlock, but it would be best if you put a nappy on him first. He peed on my rather expensive carpet last time.”

“That was your fault,” snapped Sherlock. “I told you that I couldn’t wait.”

“No self-control whatsoever. We shall have to discuss the finer points of Sherlock management, John.”

“Yeah, okay,” said John. He decided that he had fallen down a hole, a rabbit hole, marked ‘this way to wonderland’.

“We’re busy that night,” said Sherlock.

“Which night would that be?” asked Mycroft mildly.

“Any night you care to name.”

“No, I think not.” Mycroft brushed the back of his knuckles over Sherlock’s cheek. “You fight and fume, but we all know that you need discipline.” Mycroft’s smile was positively wicked. “As I always say, John, the third time’s the charm.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
